


bloodied landscape

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood, But also kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimson Flower, M/M, Male My Unit | Byleth, Murder, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), and Jeritza being Jeritza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There is no response, but that is fine. Byleth prefers not receiving one, anyway, as his other hand lands in Jeritza's hair and his calloused fingers begin stroking the dampened locks. He feels Jeritza lean into the touch."One day," he whispers, "we will finally have our battle."A laugh bubbles past Byleth's lips, probably the most genuine one he's had since he'd been stationed to fight. "Are you incapable of considering anything else?"
Relationships: Jeritza von Hrym/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 117





	bloodied landscape

**Author's Note:**

> tumbled down into bylitza hell and this is my contribution. i hope it's not terrible

Winter at Garreg Mach is bitter cold, with frost biting at fragile skin and the clouds floating dark in the sky above, signaling another sun-deprived day. Byleth weaves his way around the marketplace, ducking past vendors and merchants wearing cloaks as a means to protect themselves from the inclimate weather.

He still has not found what he came here for. It should come as no surprise, really, considering the season is not the only factor resulting in their current plummet in supplies, but he sports his frustration clearly. It is written all over his face, in the slight pull of his lips into a frown and the way he rather impatiently bumps against those standing in his way.

_ Hubert will be cross with me,  _ he thinks,  _ when I am unable to deliver him the needed supplies. _

And yet, such is war. Byleth is certain that, if what he is looking for  _ is _ out there somewhere, there is surely someone who needs it more. Homeless children, straggling merchants, gravely wounded soldiers… The fighting presently gripping the world, he muses, affects everybody to a different capacity.

Eventually, he decides he will not make this visit a wasted one. He approaches the blacksmith he usually frequents and unsheathes the sword attached to his belt, handing it over. The blade, a sterling silver, has become worn from overuse in battle, dented and bloodied and chipped along it's most essential points. It will not kill anyone in this state.

"Oh, my," utters the blacksmith, tracing a cautious finger along its surface, "I will see what I can do, but I make no promises." Byleth nods. "Honestly, you must be more careful with such a rare blade. Silver does not come along easily these days."

Byleth ducks his head, polite. "My apologies," he says, and does not comment on the  _ other  _ sword he has attached to his person, one he uses much more sparingly for fear of meeting this exact reality. It would not be wise to trust an ancient sword in the hands of this near stranger, after all. Business or not. "How long will it take?"

"When are you next heading off into battle?"

Byleth's lips twitch. "You know why I cannot answer that."

"Right…" There is some silence as the blacksmith pores over this. "Since you work directly under the emperor, I suppose your weapon must come as top priority. Return by tomorrow morning."

"Yes," Byleth says, pleased, "thank you, as always."

He turns on his heel, meaning to return to the monastery, but he does not make it far. He nearly collides into another body and, upon glancing up and seeing who it is, blinks slowly, surprised. "Jeritza. It is strange, seeing you here."

Jeritza—yes, it is surely Jeritza standing before Byleth now, as the Death Knight's eyes are much more cold, hungering—does not acknowledge his statement. Rather, he lists his head and says, "The emperor requires your presence."

"Right now?" Byleth asks. He glances around at their surroundings, drops his voice to a whisper. "Our next battle is not for another two weeks! Besides, I promised Hubert I would seek out supplies."

"She says it is urgent," Jeritza adds, bearing the same gleam in his eyes Byleth has seen a thousand times but cannot decipher. As always, it is impossible to tell what he is thinking. "I will be there, too."

"What?" It takes a moment for Jeritza's last words to process. "You and I? Does she—"

"Do not waste time with such foolish words," Jeritza tells him. His brow furrows. "Let us go. We both know she doesn't like waiting."

Byleth inhales. That is true enough.

He takes a step forward as if to follow Jeritza, then stops. He heads towards the blacksmith once more and pulls out his satchel, pouring several gold pieces onto the counter.

"Have the sword repaired by tonight," he requests, and the blacksmith nods rapidly.

***

As he enters the audience chamber alongside Jeritza, Byleth cannot help but remember it for what it once was, and his first time arriving here, years ago—he recalls Lady Rhea, smiling almost  _ too _ kindly, and his father, telling him to be weary of her.

He wonders what his father would think now, would he have seen the path he took. Would he be proud, or angry? Exuberant, or reverent? Regardless, there is no point in reflecting. Byleth made his decision in the Holy Tomb, when he chose Edelgard. He cannot turn back.

"Professor," Edelgard greets, standing in the spot the archbishop once stood, where she often called Byleth to inform him of missions and crudely declared punishments for so-called sinners. "It is nice to see you. Hello, Jeritza."

Byleth is perceptive. He doesn't fail to notice the way her tone falls when she addresses Jeritza, and how the small smile on her lips falls away. Hubert, poised at her side, is unmoving and stoic, ever the emperor's shadow.

"I am sure," he begins, "you are wondering why you were called here."

"Perhaps," answers Byleth, deadpan. Hubert frowns at his crudeness, but otherwise remains undeterred.

“I would hate to bother you so close to our scheduled departure,” Edelgard says, “but I am afraid this is a matter that requires immediate attention. You and Jeritza will be heading east, towards Alliance territory. Hubert, of course, will be giving you the exact location. Your job is to go there, swiftly defeat the enemy, and leave. Do I make myself clear?”

“Wait a moment,” Byleth says, and it is not lost on him that this is not how he should be addressing someone of her status. He pays no mind, however, to how Edelgard’s features tense at his address. “Just us two? What about the students?”

“We can not draw attention to ourselves,” she answers, “lest something… unsavory were to occur. It is in our best interest to keep this mission as discreet as possible. You two are best equipped in handling our targets, moreover, given your strength. I trust you will not be gravely injured.”

Byleth nods, knowing there is no point in asking further questions, and casts a sideways glance towards Jeritza. There is no falter in his expression, no change signifying any verifiable emotion.  _ Like a hound,  _ he thinks,  _ trained to kill, obey its master. _

Although… There is one thing he does not understand quite yet. “Who will we be facing?” he asks. “The church?”

Edelgard places a hand upon her forehead, as if the query were a foolish one. “No,” she replies, “this is a completely separate entity.”

“I am sure,” Hubert says, “I have told you about those who slither in the dark. Do you recall, Professor?”

Byleth does. A hidden enemy in the shadows, foes capable of wearing others’ faces and transforming into the likes of Tomas and Monica, hiding amongst those on the surface. If the events that occured during his time as a teacher imply anything, it is that they are not so easily trifled with.

“Though the war rages on,” Edelgard adds, “it would be advantageous to thin their numbers as best we can. So long as we are careful, we will not be blamed.”

“And it is careful to send two high-ranking officers in the Imperial army?” Byleth asks.

“It is not ideal, but it is our best shot nonetheless. Though wearing something that conceals your face would help,” Edelgard whispers, an afterthought. Byleth shakes his head, bemused.

“When will we depart?”

“Tonight, while the others are sleeping. As I said, we would prefer for this to be kept discreet as possible. It should take a day or two at the most, and Hubert and I have devised a lie to keep this excursion secret. I hope you will not inform anyone of what transpired once it is over.” She does not await an answer. “Excellent. I am counting on you both.”

Thus ends the summons. Byleth returns to his quarters and considers the coming mission, at what might occur while he is gone. He as well wonders whether Edelgard has considered the implications of what it means to leave him alone with Jeritza, and whether or not she cares.

He gazes outside his window. It will likely rain tonight, he surmises.

***

They depart when the monastery is asleep and the moon hangs high in the sky, a silent witness as they mount their horses and set off into the darkness. Byleth watches as his home shrinks and fades, disappearing from view.

Jeritza is silent, and Byleth knows him well enough to realize there is no point in exchanging words. There is only the sound of hooves hitting the soil underfoot and, soon enough, it begins drizzling, which then becomes a heavy downpour. Byleth pulls the cloak he’d borrowed further over his head, worried over his hair growing wet.

He tugs on his stallion’s reins and assumes position at Jeritza’s side, speaking his first words since they’d left. “We should stop somewhere for the night,” he suggests, raising his voice to be heard over the rain. “At this rate we’ll catch cold.”

Jeritza gives no response, but Byleth knows he will listen. They continue riding until they finally happen upon a cavity in a nearby cliff, small but spacious enough to house them temporarily.

Byleth shoves stakes into the ground just outside and ties their horses’ reins to them, tugging to ensure it’s secured and they won’t run off in the middle of the evening. Then, satisfied, he heads into the forest to gather wood and returns sometime later bearing an armful.

As predicted, Jeritza hasn’t moved an inch. He sits on the cave floor with his chin placed atop his knees and watches expressionlessly as Byleth starts a small fire for them, fingertips glowing as he uses magic to set the wood ablaze. Eventually it catches and he sits as well, scooting closer so he can bask in the orange glow.

Their clothes and hair are soaked through from the rain, and Byleth notices belatedly that Jeritza is shivering, likely from the cold. Surely they will both grow sick at some point.

“We could change into our spares,” Byleth suggests, and reaches for their bag of supplies.

“Not yet,” Jeritza replies. “It would be wiser to save them for after the fight. We will surely be bloody once the quarrel has come to an end. Those Agarthans… The way they fight is merciless. Brutal.”

“Is that so?” Byleth grabs the bag, but only so he can retrieve their rations. He pulls out an apple and hands it to Jeritza, already aware that he will not enjoy the mysterious  _ somethings  _ Hubert made sure to pack them.

(They are white and square and odorless, and despite Hubert assuring Byleth they would provide enough nutrition during the mission, Byleth still made a secret visit to the dining hall for whatever fruit he could gather. Though not as sweet as what Jeritza typically enjoys, they will certainly save him from falling victim to Jeritza’s childish complaints.)

Jeritza bites into the apple and makes a face. Byleth cracks a smile.  _ He is an odd one,  _ he thinks, but does not say.

“I will treat you to honeyed tea and dessert when we return,” he promises. Jeritza's only reaction is a short nod as he takes another slow bite.

“Say,” Byleth adds, after a moment, “what will you do once the war has finished?”

Jeritza does not respond right away. He munches thoughtfully on his fruit, gaze fixated on the flames.

“I am not sure,” he says, eventually, “what the emperor will have me do.  _ Perhaps _ she will have me hidden away again, keeping me locked in a dark box until the end of my days. It matters not.”

Somehow, the idea isn't surprising. Byleth gnaws on his lower lip. “What of our ‘fated duel,’ as you called it? Edelgard said you would not hurt your allies while we are still battling the church and Kingdom. Once they are defeated, however—”

“I am sure,” Jeritza interrupts, “that even after the war has ended, the emperor would not want to see you fall. Unless… you would fight me regardless of that?”

Ah. There is something there, now, shining in Jeritza’s eyes. Byleth thinks it may be a challenge.

His smile broadens.

“I will dwell on it,” he teases, and Jeritza's lashes flutter.

"Do not toy with me when we are alone," he warns. His voice drops an octave and Byleth shudders involuntarily at the implications hidden beneath his tone. "Surely you are smart enough not to taunt it. Taunt  _ him." _

"I do not fear the Death Knight," Byleth answers simply, poking at the fire with a stick. "Besides, I believe I'm rather capable of defending myself, should the worst occur."

Jeritza is quiet. Contemplative. Then: "You were a mercenary. Before."

Byleth blinks. "Yes," he says, "I was."

"It is… intriguing. Back then, you were known as the Ashen Demon. The emperor informed me you were once a merciless killer."

He lowers his brows. "Once? Do you mean to insinuate I am no longer that?" He is not insulted. On the contrary, the thought rather interests him.

As a result of his newfound emotions, could it be possible he has somehow transgressed his previous reputation? Or does fighting alongside the Empire only confirm his title, cementing that name further into his core with each kill, each body causing more blood to pool at his feet?

Truthfully, he is not sure. He has never thought about it, the morality. His only concern since becoming an active participant in the war has been ensuring the safety of his allies—his  _ students _ —and attaining victory. The screams, the faces, the cries for help as his sword sliced through skin and left crumpled bodies to collapse to the ground… None of that mattered.

Jeritza is apparently attuned to his thoughts. "I am… uncertain as to what you might be. Whatever it is, it is surely not human."

_ Oh.  _ Subconsciously, Byleth fingers comb through his hair. Green, transformed so when Sothis granted him her power to free him from the dark realm he was trapped in. Green, like Rhea's, and Flayn's, and Seteth's. Green, like Sothis, the goddess herself.

He will never understand what it means. He doubts Rhea will wish to have a pleasant chat with him when next they see each other, and he doubts Seteth or Flayn would, either. He merely has his speculations, and hazy memories he cannot unlock no matter how far he wanders into the fog.

"Jeritza," Byleth rasps, "do you believe I am a goddess?"

He doesn't hesitate in his answer—that, Byleth appreciates. "No."

Byleth sighs, nods. "Thank you," he says.

Without much thought, he reaches forward. His hand lands upon Jeritza's face and, gently, he begins stroking his thumb along the line of Jeritza's lower lip. It is rough, chapped. The skin threatens to peel away beneath his touch, and bleed, and it is so startlingly  _ Jeritza  _ that Byleth cannot help but grin.

Jeritza's brows knit together in confusion. "Is something amusing?"

"No." Byleth pauses. The fire crackles, and it takes another moment before he thinks of what to say next. "You are beautiful."

There is no response, but that is fine. Byleth prefers not receiving one, anyway, as his other hand lands in Jeritza's hair and his calloused fingers begin stroking the dampened locks. He feels Jeritza lean into the touch.

"One day," he whispers, "we will finally have our battle."

A laugh bubbles past Byleth's lips, probably the most genuine one he's had since he'd been stationed to fight. "Are you incapable of considering anything else?"

Again, Jeritza is silent, but Byleth doesn't mind. He says enough in the way his mouth parts as Byleth leans in, cold but firm against his own.

***

The sun rises the next morning and they depart yet again. Byleth's body buzzes with renewed energy and eventually Jeritza slows to match his pace, uttering a low warning. "We are nearly there."

Byleth nods. "Pull up the cloak I gave you," he says. "Edelgard advised that we keep our identities hidden."

Jeritza obeys, tugging the dark fabric over his face and concealing his features in shadow. Byleth does the same.

The ensuing battle is by no means a clean one. In fact, it is bloody, gruesome, completely unlike the organized formations of the church and what he had taught his students while he was a teacher. It is  _ merciless, _ just as Jeritza described.

There is biting, scratching, tearing. Unidentifiable metal rips through Byleth's skin and leaves stinging wounds, and the Agarthans bear their teeth as they keep on the attack, frantic and  _ wild,  _ but brutal all the same. Byleth dodges, ducks, swipes, aware that a single misstep could bring about an unfortunate demise.

By the time the last of them has been defeated Byleth is soaked in blood, and he is so lost to the adrenaline pumping through his veins that he cannot decipher how much of it is his own. He inhales deeply and his lungs ache, and his injuries sear as if he'd been burned.

Gently, he reaches up to touch a gash left on his upper arm. The skin surrounding the liaison feels burnt, somehow, and Byleth vaguely recalls five years ago, when Manuela told him the wound that killed his father was unusual.

Byleth winces.  _ Damn it. _

Nevertheless, there is no use pondering over old recollections. He lifts his head and begins walking across the decimated field, boots squelching in the mud still drying from the rain the night prior. His ears ring and his vision blurs, but he couldn't care less.

_ Where is Jeritza?  _ he wonders. They'd been separated at some point during the skirmish, lost in the smoke and the gore. Yet Byleth is certain Jeritza is fine—he is much too insistent to fall.

Apparently, for Byleth, such is not the case. He feels his foot slide out from beneath him and collapses promptly into the mud, back hitting the ground and causing his entire body to quake. He exhales deeply through his nose, a shaking breath.

He lays still to collect his bearings. Then, a voice. "What are you doing?"

"Ah, Jeritza," Byleth says, choosing to ignore the fact he is presently wallowing, and lifts his head. Jeritza looks spectacular illuminated by the afternoon sunlight, hair shining nearly a brilliant gold. "I am fine. I, er…  _ slipped,  _ is all."

Jeritza does not offer so much as a smile. "Do not waste time. The emperor said we are to return immediately."

"As she has made quite clear, yes," Byleth replies, slowly bringing himself to stand. He tears off the borrowed cloak and tosses it upon the ground, figuring he has no use for it now. It is stained beyond repair. "You… You are less injured than I thought you'd be."

His eyes fall upon Jeritza's form in bewilderment. Besides the occasional scratch here and there, he is virtually unharmed—drenched in blood, sure, but not sporting any physical evidence suggesting it is his. Honestly, Byleth is impressed.

"I told you how the Agarthans fight," he says. Byleth's gaze flickers downward and finds his scythe, dripping crimson droplets upon the earth. "It is not my fault if you choose to fight recklessly."

Byleth barely restrains his amusement at that. "Were you watching me?"

Jeritza shakes his head. "I did not need to," he answers, matter-of-fact. "I know you well, have observed you enough times already to understand you like the blade of my own weapon. You are strong, but rather careless. Foolish."

"Are you worried I may perish?" Byleth asks. A smile quirks at his lips.

"Of course not. You know that you mustn't, not when we are yet to face each other."

Byleth blinks. He steps forward, and gently places his palm against Jeritza's chest. Jeritza does not stop him.

"Your heart is racing," he comments.

"Perhaps it is because I am seeing you as I am now," Jeritza admits, suddenly breathless, "in the aftermath of battle. You are—"

Byleth grabs a fistful of Jeriza's hair, bringing him down for a kiss. Their mouths mold together slowly, surprisingly soft but passionate all the same. When Byleth pulls away he sees Jeritza's cheeks dusted with a pale blush.

"Do not get  _ too _ excited," he says. "As you have told me, the emperor does not enjoy waiting. It is in our best interest to return as soon as possible."

Contradicting his words, however, he makes no motion to leave. His fingers curl around Jeritza's chin, cupping affectionately. "Though I suppose it would not be abhorrent if we stopped somewhere for the night. We are definitely the worse for wear, after all."

He lowers his voice for better effect, and regards Jeritza through half-lidded eyes. Immediately Jeritza catches his breath, and something within Byleth purrs, sickly satisfied.

"Yes," he answers. "I suppose it would be for the best."

At last, Byleth steps away. Regardless, his smile does not once fade.

"Excellent. Shall we be on our way, then? Looking at these corpses has become awfully depressing."

He offers his hand. To his surprise, Jeritza takes it.

"We shall."


End file.
